


Tailing Treason

by darundik



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Gen, POV Outsider, Politics, Treason, roy mustang doing his best while being a political hostage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:49:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23506384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darundik/pseuds/darundik
Summary: Roy Mustang, tailed by the Amestrinian secret police over the course of the winter and spring of 1915. His agent disapproves of his anarchic tactics.
Relationships: Riza Hawkeye & Roy Mustang
Comments: 4
Kudos: 58





	Tailing Treason

“New assignment, Dawkins.” A pockmarked hand assertively slid the file over to him. “Colonel Roy Mustang, the Flame Alchemist. Recently transferred to Central; suspected for high treason.”

“Will it be the usual, sir? Find any evidence of thoughts against the state, strange phone calls, money leaving his bank account sporadically?” Lieutenant Dawkins flipped open the folder and glanced at the insides. Veteran of the Ishbalan Civil War, dubbed ‘Hero of Ishbal’ afterwards, currently unassigned to a department, unmarried, a family consisting only of his foster mother back East (with her own old folder - estranged, no leverage, odd past of brothels and anti-imperial informative activity).

“No, your main job will make sure he does not step out of line. The brass wants their eye on this one. He’s been meddling, and they know. I’m actually pretty sure he knows he’s being watched. Don’t be afraid of being seen” The major shifted in his seat. “If you have no more questions, you are dismissed.”

Salute crisp and walk brisk, Dawkins took the folder in hand and walked out of the room.

The first night of the trailing, Dawkins found his target in a bar. Sprawled at the barstool, Mustang made small talk with the owner, a portly woman of fifty who wafted cigarette smoke like the sun light. He sat faux-relaxed, posture bent out of its military regulation and face softened in the hazy yellow glow of the bar, but his right hand was twitching where it grasped the coffee mug. The woman eyed him like she was trying to not pay attention to the silk shirt and long lashes of her newest customer, but those alchemic scars would raise eyebrows in even that seedy part of town. These binoculars made spying so much easier for Dawkins; according to military technicians, at least now he didn’t have to be coy and sit in the warm bar and risk getting noticed.

Why coffee? He’s at a bar. He knows he’s being watched. Why not something that burns the heart more than burnt bean water?

At the bar, Mustang finally pulled out some cenz from his waistcoat, drowned his coffee, and flinched, nearly dropping his cup. Some war hero colonel – except hadn’t he been wounded in a city skirmish recently? Dawkins put away his binoculars and took out his file. Wounded in an unknown attack about two weeks ago. Impaled though the abdomen. Dear God, how is he still alive and walking, much less plotting treason?

At this point Mustang exited the bar and meandered slowly across the courtyard to the main road. The military straightened back returned and his gait stiffened, turning him into something more like a distinguished colonel, a country-famous war hero than a forgotten hopeless veteran. He kept his red-array gloves in his pockets, and spare versions lining each of his coats. Dawkins would know; his Intelligence badge protects him if caught trespassing on property “in search of truth for the State of Amestris.” Mustang’s apartment was small and sparse, still unpacked – military uniform alongside an array of wrinkled suits in the closet, a couple little black books of women and paramours, a fireplace with ashes upon ashes, and a kitchen furnished with two plates and one set of utensils. A single dusty photobook obviously given as a gift from a friend (haphazard arrangement, and neglectful water stains). Nothing incriminating, but nothing humanizing either.

It was Mustang’s movements around Central that puzzled Dawkins the most. After a couple visits to the bar alone, Mustang began leaving the bar with women -- either hostesses from the establishment, or gals who drifted from other officers’ arms to his over the course of the night. They always managed to find the Mustang charm resistible after all, and he went home alone most nights (and the rest? At least they knew for sure the sound quality was high in his bugged bedroom).  
There is that famous reputation from the East. Dawkins’ old academy buddy warned him about this: Mustang can steal girls. And very efficiently. And with those exotic looks and social reputation, Dawkins can totally see why.

Case in point: one evening after her transfer, Colonel Roy Mustang and Major General Olivier Armstrong chose to shed their military personas for dinner at a new upscale Xingese restaurant in the Mitcham neighborhood. Both single, new in town, and on the rise -- or at least before their transfer (Officer Randall’s on her case, he bets). Mustang arrived in his car (geez, what do they pay these alchemists?) with gentlemanly precision and grace, flowers fresh and frock coat flat. Armstrong dressed with the most classic upscale fashion privileging her family, but with military coat and hereditary sword still opulently displayed in a clear showcase of power. No bugs could be placed in the area, but Randall pulled some strings on the Xingese servers who spoke Amestrinian. Mustang performed the perfect gentleman: pulling out her chair, keeping his distance, quietly laughing at her comments. Still encased in social ice, Olivier flicked her eyes up and dropped her aggressive offensive stance for the duration of the dinner, but never quite gave up her defensive posture. They spoke of news from the North, of Olivier’s most recent headache and Mustang’s former chaotic charges in the Elrics, of moving from their remote posts on the dangerous edges of the country to the civilized Central, and hm, Olivier, how is it in those meetings with the brass? The server set the fish on the table, eyes down and professional and ears absolutely listening, while Mustang expressed his sorrow for the latest member of the conference. 

“What a tragedy, with General Raven. And he greeted me to Central Command with such friendliness,” he says, spearing his asparagus.   
Olivier just smiles over her wine, “A fitting end, for such a respectable member of our leadership.”  
Mustang raises his glass, and they toast to the memory, and to the health of their leaders, before finishing up the dinner and heading to their respective cold residences.

That dinner felt like an aberration. For a colonel, Mustang ate in the mess hall, alone, quite often, but occasionally he was joined by another potential accomplice - Lieutenant Hawkeye, new in the elite position of Fuhrer's aide. Their small talk never transgressed to anything substantial -

"Funny thing, this meatloaf?"

"It never was that good."  
"Remember the one served back East?"

"Hah, only too well. Only Black Hayate was able to truly enjoy it.”

Mustang took a sip of his coffee and clammered it back on the table.

“Well, I remember when Oscar dared Liv -- you know her, friend of Isaac’s? -- to a meatloaf eating contest. Vato took score and counted all their calories while Isaac watched with an open mouth and Rick cheered on.”

Hawkeye smiled a soft unpracticed smile. “Do you remember how it ended? Who threw up?”

Mustang chuckled, “Well, after watching them, Isaac was the one who threw up. Stan had to get him to the restroom, and the rest of the Winthrop Crew had to deal with the remains. Majors Thorn and Helmsman delivered quite a reprimand, forcing all those in the mess hall to do some academy-level trench-digging.”

“Like you got to back then?”

“Yeah, exactly like after that fight with Uri and Stewart. I swear I still have the callouses.”

Hawkeye smiled once more, finished her coffee, said a quick thank you and goodbye, and took her leave back to her post at the side of the Fuhrer. Mustang stared at the spot where she sat, his socially genial charm evaporated. In a canteen where officers sit together, his lonely yet known presence felt too vividly. Eventually he too, downed his coffee, and left back to his empty office. You’d think they’d assign him a squad by now, but the oppressive silence of the empty room must be more important to Major Douglas than the illusion of normalcy. None of Dawkins’ previous tails have been this obviously disgraced. Lieutenant Wasko and her Drachman colleague were simply spirited away to state prison at 2 am after a conclusive tip-off. Professor Phillips of Central University just needed a couple officers attending his lectures in the back to understand his political theory would gain no traction. It took just a single stamped camera to knock off that gossip reporter from her trail on Selim Bradley.

Dawkins scrawled another note, “Unfazed by tension of political situation,” in his watching notebook, before seeing his mid-day exchange, - until Mustang locked himself in the bathroom for 20 minutes after a lunch of non-threatening exchanges.

Dawkins huddled around the bathroom entrance. This was getting ridiculous. A man could only do so much in a bathroom.

As yet another entourage of soldiers walked by and Dawkins saluted, a spark went off in his peripheral vision, a small, bright "zip!", and traveled from the light above the bathroom down the hallway, and around the corner. Dawkins blinked, and when he heard footsteps coming from the bathroom, started walking towards his office, away from his subject (although at this point it was pointless to try and hide). After a few seconds he entered his office - only to see that his desk lamp had blown up, leaving only metal scraps and a dark mark where it connected to the outlet. When did this happen? Why did no one report it?

The other office workers looked at him with wide eyes, confused as well. "It happened right before you came in, sir," rasped an aide. Dawkins still couldn't reply. His lamp was gone, and so he reminded himself, that Mustang knew about his tailing, he knew of the power he was up against, and he was refusing to completely bow down. This was not a simple tail, but one that required the same attentiveness and mistrust as the rest of the treasonous bunch.

And thus his standoff with Mustang continued, through the winter and into the spring months. Tailing to dates at flower stalls, to his lonely apartment, standing outside Madam Christmas’ bar on the brisk weekday nights, wondering when Mustang will break -- either collapse under the weight of the eyes watching him like a broken horse and finally fall in line, or snap and commit to the treasonous concepts he’s been accused of.

By this time, Mustang had shown his obedience, his beaten spirit under the uncouth jabs at authority. Dawkins was considering transferring to another target the next week, but that Tuesday, a small divergence stopped all his future plans. Madam Christmas’ dark and cozy bar was nearly empty, with employees and patrons leaving in an uneven stream as the hours creep further into the night -- and Mustang remained at his slumped seat at the bar. Dawkins’s head was falling into his own slump when some young-faced associate ran into his gaze, not even bothering to hide his loud panting. He yelled out -- “Madame Christmas --- is Chris Mustang!” and all laziness and tired weight electrified off of Dawkins in a spurt of alarm. Chris Mustang’s name interwoven with Roy Mustang's on his dossier. The whispers hushed that the noted madame and a noted underground purveyor of secrets not only assisted her adoptive son’s unprecedented ascent to young power but also contributed to General Grumman’s continued grasp of the rebellious East. In effect -- a powerful and dangerous player that Mustang should never have had access to -- and absolutely not every night of the week over the course of a season.

Dawkins only had time to look from the associate’s sweaty, panting face to start towards the bar --- where Mustang was no longer sitting at the bar and the Madame no longer tended behind it. “Go--” he didn’t even have time to direct his colleagues before an explosion bleached his eyes and popped his ears with a violent wave of heat. Fire seared his raised arm, and he looked towards his target --- and realized that he’s lost him in the biggest performance he’s seen away from a theater. Mustang is gone, and now the real spectacle begins.

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this fic in 2014. Since then, I've begun and graduated college and lived in 6 different cities. About time I finished this piece - I love Roy as a character so much, and I feel like the political/espionage/revolution aspects of FMA are never explored enough, so here's my small addition to the pile. I will never stop loving POV Outsider fics -- it's how I look at the characters, after all, from the outside. Hope it's a good read, and a decent attempt as a second fic.


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